


Apple Shampoo

by feverbeats



Category: Bandom RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Big Bang, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't tell me I should be their manager," Ryan says, glaring at the road.</p><p>Pete pauses. "Ok. Well, I was about to, but I guess you already know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apple Shampoo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bandom Big Bang. Title (and plot) from "Apple Shampoo" by Blink-182.

The week before Ryan has to leave for college, the four of them, Ryan, Spencer, Brent, and Brendon go to the mall. They sit around in the food court eating bad Chinese food and trying to pretend that nothing's different. Maybe nothing is, for them. Ryan thinks it's probably different for Spencer, because he shows it in little ways, like talking to Ryan more than usual and brushing against his arm more often.

Ryan really just wants the evening to be over. If he can't stop thinking about how this is one of the last times he'll get to hang out with Spencer before he goes, he's going to freak out, and he'd much rather freak out at home with his webcam and his suitcases than here in the middle of the mall.

Brendon is all bunched up in the corner of the table, shy and awkward. He's gotten a little better at unbunching lately, which is too bad, because it's happening just as Ryan's going away. Ryan isn't sure how he feels about that. Jealous, a little. Who knows what Brendon will be by the time Ryan's back again? He's almost a little proud, or at least pleased. Getting Brendon to come out of his shell has been hard, but Ryan's gotten to be an expert at what turns Brendon from repressed religious kid to tiny goofball in any given situation. He guesses he'll miss Brendon.

Brent, not so much. Ryan doesn't know what it is about Brent that rubs him the wrong way. Maybe it's that he doesn't seem to get how cool Ryan is.

Ryan mostly hates Brent because when they were fifteen, Ryan tried to kiss him and Brent wouldn't let him.

Ryan is trying not to think too hard about Spencer. He's just there next to Ryan, looking the same as always, and Ryan doesn't like it. What will happen when he goes to college? Will Spencer hang out with Brent? Will they . . . Ryan frowns. He isn't going to let himself think about it.

Brent is trying to put lo mein in Spencer's ear, but Ryan knows that only works with popcorn. Who will be there to know stupid stuff about Spencer when Ryan goes away to college? Ryan knows that Spencer wears blue boxers and eats Cheerios and likes arcade games but not RPGs. He knows things about Spencer in lists, but the knowledge doesn't feel like a list in his head. It just feels like Spencer. Maybe no one else cares what kind of video games Spencer likes. It bugs Ryan.

It doesn't help that he and Spencer have been making out in their free time for a year now. They started with awkward fumbling in Spencer's bedroom and moved to doing stuff at school, sneaking into closets during free periods. It sometimes got to the point where all Ryan could think about during study hall was Spencer's lips, stomach, thighs.

"Ry-Ry," Spencer says, punching his arm.

Ryan turns. "Uh, sorry, I was zoning out."

"Yeah, well, the mall's closing."

As they file out, avoiding a clump of goths, Ryan catches hold of the sleeve of Spencer's sweatshirt. "Don't tell Brent you like Cheerios," he says.

Spencer turns to him, frowning, and Ryan wishes he hadn't said anything. Now he's going to have to explain how he's kind of losing his mind. But then Spencer says, "I wouldn't _ever_ do that, you jerk," and Ryan can breathe again.

Ryan spends that night at Spencer's. Ryan's dad is sick, but not sick enough to go to the hospital. It's Ryan's least favorite part of the cycle. He and Spencer lie on the bed together, arms and hips just barely touching. There's something on the stereo, probably Fall Out Boy.

Ryan is making a list of things he wants to do before he dies and writing it on Spencer's arm. "Have a bright green car," he says.

"You wouldn't drive it. And what if it didn't match your outfits?"

Ryan concentrates on hurting Spencer's arm with the pen and listening to the music.

"I'll be right here," Spencer says after a few songs. "It's only like twenty minutes away."

Ryan's fingers slide over the back of Spencer's hand which he knows like the back of his own. "I know. But it feels different, you know? It feels like I'm going to . . . I don't know, _space_, or something."

Spencer laughs. "Yeah, I know. But it'll be ok. We'll visit all the time and everything."

Ryan doesn't want visits. He wants to be a year younger. Wanting to say that, he takes a breath, but he stops like he always does. It shouldn't be so hard to talk about what's going on in his head. Thankfully, he doesn't need to, because Spencer is a fucking psychic.

"It won't be the same, but maybe it'll be even better." He rolls over, leaning against Ryan and brushing Ryan's hip with his fingers.

"What about, uh, us?" Ryan says. His hips under Spencer's fingers feel too sharp, too dangerous. Who else will want to brave them?

"Us?" Spencer's hand has gone still, and Ryan instantly misses the tiny roughness of his fingertips.

Ryan doesn't want to ask all the questions he should have asked a year ago. They haven't even talked about this relationship, fuck, he doesn't even know if it _is_ a relationship. They just do stuff and hope it works. "I just don't know what's going to happen," he says, figuring that covers all the bases.

Spencer's hand starts tapping its way across Ryan's hip again, nervously this time. "Um . . . I get that you probably want to, y'know, do stuff. In college. Because it's college."

"What?" Ryan says, blindsided and confused.

"I mean, I get it if you want to break up," Spencer says quickly, looking away. "Or, not break up. Because this isn't even a thing. Or . . ."

Sometimes Ryan can feel the gap between their ages swaying and stretching between them, and this is one of those times. "It's a thing," he says. He doesn't want Spencer to be upset or uncertain ever again.

Spencer turns back to Ryan, smiling. "Yeah, I kind of figured. But I wanted to make sure. So, you're not going to go around sleeping with hot college guys?"

Ryan shakes his head and smiles, but he hadn't actually even thought about that. He doesn't think he could pull it off. There are guys out there who don't need to have a webcam between them and the world, but Ryan doesn't know how they do it. "I don't think hot college guys are my type," he says instead.

"Awesome." Spencer grins and sweeps his hand across Ryan's stomach, under his t-shirt.

Leaning back into the mattress, Ryan takes a deep breath. Spencer's hand is warm.

"You're leaving in a week," Spencer says. His voice is hushed and strange, and Ryan doesn't—

Oh. Ryan gets it. He kind of wishes he didn't. It's not exactly that he isn't ready, it's more that he doesn't want this to feel like the end of something. "Yeah," he says, unconsciously arching up against Spencer's hand a little, "But I'm not leaving for good."

Spencer's hand stops its path across Ryan's stomach. "Um, ok, thank God. Yeah, that would have sucked."

"Not that much," Ryan says, feeling like he's back on earth again.

"Good." Spencer sighs and looks at his arm. "How am I going to explain to my mom why I have 'Make out with Pete Wentz' written on my arm?"

*

The next day, Ryan is standing in the driveway waiting to go to college, and Spencer is standing in front of him and telling him that he isn't sure what's going to happen with what used to be _their_ band. Ryan sort of assumed that the band would fall apart without him. Apparently it isn't going to.

"Spencer," Ryan says, realizing that his tone is anything but pleasant, "Are you serious?"

Spencer shrugs uncomfortably in his too-big t-shirt. "Yeah. Ryan, it's just a question."

He's not mad. Or, well, he _shouldn't_ be mad. Spencer can do what he wants. He still has a year until he graduates and has to deal with real life, and some stupid high school band shouldn't make Ryan so upset. "I know," he says.

Spencer bites his lip. "Ok, Ryan, this is the thing: I love playing drums, ok? And I don't want to stop just because you're going away."

And ok, Ryan didn't even think of that. He figured he'd visit on weekends, because that's mostly when they practice anyway . . . But maybe Spencer is more serious about this band than he thought. "I guess I won't be able to practice with you guys if I'm at school," he says.

Spencer nods nervously. "Well, yeah. I kind of figured you wouldn't want to. And you wouldn't have the time."

Ryan wants to make time, but for some reason, the words catch on the way out of his mouth, and he can't say anything.

Playing with the hem of his shirt, Spencer continues, "And I know we won't have a singer or a guitarist without you, but . . ."

Ryan smirks a little, incredibly hurt. "So, you're basically screwed." He doesn't know why he's being such a douche, but he doesn't dare not to be right now. Maybe going away would be easier if he didn't have any friends here. He reminds himself again that he's not even leaving Vegas, but it doesn't matter. College feels like a whole different world.

Spencer makes a small noise of irritation. "No, that's what I'm trying to tell you, if you'd stop being such a jerk. We kind of _do_ have someone who can play. And sing. You know Brendon?"

"Yeah, I vaguely remember him," he spits. "Look, I'm gonna be late for orientation if I don't leave now."

"Ryan," Spencer says, frowning, but Ryan is already getting into his dad's car.

On the way to college, Ryan listens to his CD player. He usually has a lyric for every occasion, but nothing fits right. He wishes something he'd written had stuck.

*

_I hate my roommate_, Ryan scribbles angrily in his diary/journal, whichever word is less girly. He's too worked up right now to care about what he calls the book, though. The pencil threatens to make a dent so deep in the page that the paper tears.

His roommate plays _sports_. That should be fine. Ryan played sports when he was a kid. It turns, out, though, that Tyler or Joey or Kevin or whatever the hell his name is doesn't just play sports, he _lives_ them. There are jerseys and posters of sports stars hanging up on the walls in half the room, and Ryan really, really hates this guy. It doesn't help that Tyler/Kevin keeps giving Ryan dirty looks. So what if Ryan's jeans are too tight and he wears makeup sometimes? That doesn't make him "emo," and it sure as hell doesn't make him a fag, as he heard Tyler call him the other day when he thought Ryan couldn't hear. Liking boys doesn't make you a fag. Ryan turns the words over in his head, hating the sound of them.

After three days, Ryan discovers the joys of the library. He can curls up in a corner and pretend he doesn't live with a douchebag. The worst part is that Tyler isn't actually outright cruel, he's just kind of lame and shitty behind Ryan's back. Ryan wonders if he could move his bed into the library.

The weirdest thing about college is being away from his dad. He'd gotten used to living in a half-flinch all the time, waiting for the next breakdown or blowup. He doesn't miss it.

There are other things Ryan does miss, though, although he misses them on purpose. He avoids logging on to AIM for a little while after he gets to school. He keeps his cell phone off, mostly, and he doesn't answer voicemails or texts. He tells himself that it's because he's trying to get adjusted to college, but he really just doesn't want to hear Spencer rant about how great Brendon is. He doesn't really have any proof that Spencer's likely to do that, but he wants to play it safe.

Playing it safe lasts about eight days, until all of his notes for class say _Spencer_ in the margins. After lunch one day, he ends up watching the clock for a hour and a half until he knows Spencer is out of school. Then he calls.

"Ryan!" Spencer still sounds the same, except a little more pissed off.

Ryan takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Sorry."

"I called you a bunch." He doesn't sound accusing anymore, just a little sheepish.

Ryan doesn't really decide to lie, it just happens. "I was busy with orientation stuff. And then classes started, and I didn't have time . . ."

"For one phone call?"

"How's the band?" Ryan wonders if this new thing where he can't control is mouth is curable at all.

Spencer sighs sharply. "If I'd known you were just going to be a dick, I would have stopped calling."

Ryan's breath feels too sharp and fast in his chest. "I didn't mean . . . Spencer, I'm sorry." Spencer shouldn't feel like a stranger. They know each other inside and out. "I just feel really weird about being this far away." It feels like a stupid thing to say, because he's not far away at all.

"I know," Spencer says, and he's back from the moon yet again. "Hey, can I come visit you this weekend?"  
Ryan breathes a sigh of relief. "Well, yeah."

*

The weekend takes a really long time to get there. By the time Friday rolls around, Ryan has run out of useful thoughts about Spencer. He's also too distracted to write the little snippets of anger or meaning he usually scribbles, and he doesn't wonder if there's a correlation between Spencer and his writing.

The strangest thing is losing the band without losing Spencer. Ryan is pretty sure he's putting a weird amount of emphasis on something that was basically a hobby, but he can't stop thinking about it. His fingers itch from not touching his guitar. He knows they could probably work something out where he practices with them, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how much Spencer wants to practice more often than that. This band isn't just a hobby for him.

That night, Spencer shows up outside his dorm, banging on the window. Ryan thanks God that he got stuck in a first-floor room. He's completely lost track of how many times they'd climbed in and out of each other's windows, but he knows that he misses it.

"Hi," Spencer says, a little breathless.

Ryan helps him inside. "Tell me everything." He misses home, even though it's close enough that the smell of the air here isn't even any different.

Spencer falls into the room and against Ryan's bed, winding his hands in Ryan's shirt. Ryan clings, not even trying to kiss Spencer or anything. Feeling Spencer's hands and smelling his t-shirt is enough. "I'm not telling you anything until you hug me better."

And ok, maybe Ryan _is_ a total fag, because he wraps his arms around Spencer and holds on tightly. "Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me."

Spencer hits him in the head. "Are you quoting fucking Lambchop?"

"Fucking Lambchop is a really uncool thing to do," Ryan says without thinking, and Spencer hits him again.

Tyler is out at some sports thing, so Ryan doesn't mind rolling himself and Spencer up in a sheet. Spencer laughs. "Oh God. We're in a cocoon."

"You're so weird," Ryan says. He's too flooded with relief to even listen to himself, and he loves it. So much for his worries that things with Spencer would be different.

Spencer runs his fingers down Ryan's spine, but the sheets are wound around them pretty tightly, and the pressure of Spencer's fingers makes Ryan gasp. Spencer's eyes slip shut. "Missed you," he says.

"No shit," Ryan mutters into Spencer's shoulder. He's already been picking up phrases from his roommate. That reminds him. "By the way, I'd lock the door," he says, "but my stupid roommate gets mad. And then he locks me out in the hall when his girlfriend visits. He says when I get a girlfriend, I can lock the door."

"What a dick."

"Yeah, no kidding." He squeezes Spencer's hand. "So, tell me stuff. Tell me about the band." He thinks it's weird that he cares about the band that much, but the thought is faraway in the back of his head.

Spencer shifts against him. "Um. You know. Ok."

Alarms start going off in Ryan's head, alarms about something that honestly has nothing to do with him anymore, and he bites his lip. "Ok?"

"We changed the name," Spencer says uncomfortably.

"Panic! At the Disco," Ryan says, as a reflex. He doesn't want it to be changed. "What's it called now?"

"Bleeding White."

Ryan recognizes another lyric from a Name Taken song, but he doesn't acknowledge it. "Neat," he says.

Spencer sighs. "You could still, y'know. Be in the band. Practice on weekends."

Looking back, Ryan never understands why he said no.

*

Spencer keeps on visiting faithfully, every Friday night to Saturday afternoon. Ryan wonders sometimes how much of his social life he's giving up, but then he remembers that Spencer's social life usually consists of _him_. He finally gets up the nerve to ask Spencer when the band is practicing.

"Saturday nights," Spencer says. He still seems uncomfortable talking about it, like he thinks Ryan will freak out. It's a fair worry.

Ryan isn't sure whether to be upset that Spencer has to leave in the afternoons or guilty that he comes at all. He settles on guilty for a change. "Oh. Sorry."

"No, it's cool." Spencer's fingers ghost over Ryan's side. "I'd rather be hanging out with you. I mean, sometimes."

Ryan glows and leans into Spencer's fingers. "I hate Brent's stupid face. For the record."

"No, you don't. Not really." He pushes up the edge of Ryan's t-shirt, stroking his side a little.

"I hate Brendon's stupid voice, then," he says to stop himself from shivering. Spencer is a tiny, scary person who actually isn't so tiny anymore, and apparently Ryan is going to stay Ryan-sized forever. "Guh," he says.

"Mm-hm. Guh is right. His voice is kind of amazing."

Ryan turns a horrified face to Spencer, only to see that he's grinning. "Hate," Ryan says. "Hatehatehate. Why would you tell me vile lies?"

Spencer laughs, still rubbing Ryan's side. "It's not actually a lie, though. He does have a neat voice, and I think it'll be even better when he's had training or something."

Biting down on undignified noises is getting harder and harder. "Ngh, ok," Ryan says. "I can see what you're doing. You think I'll agree about stupid Brendon stupid Urie if you—aah."

Spencer has started casually sweeping his hand over Ryan's side. "You should totally admit that Brendon has an awesome voice."

Ryan thinks that Spencer needs to learn some different moves, but he can't help arching his back and squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh my God."

"Or at least semi-ok." His fingers dip under the waist of Ryan's too-tight jeans.

"Holy motherfucking shit." He'll just swear instead of singing Brendon's praises.

"Watch your mouth, Ryan Rossy."

"Oh God, Spencer, please, can you just fucking quit it, please?" Ryan _hates_ doing this, babbling like a stupid kid every time Spencer touches him. He shouldn't be such a dork for his best friend, but he's really stupidly in love.

"Hey," Spencer says, "hey." He immediately pulls his hand back. "Sorry, Ry. You ok?"

Ryan immediately feels dumb, but he also feels way less freaked out, so it's worth it. "Yeah. I'm sorry. That was really lame."

"Not lame. Hey, Ryan?"

Suddenly-serious Spencer is even less fun than making-Ryan-say-nice-things Spencer. "Yeah?"

"I don't know if this is a really, really dumb thing to say, but, uh, I love you. Really a lot. And maybe it's 'cause you're my best friend, but I don't think so. I think it's the boyfriend thing, too."

Spencer talks kind of a lot, Ryan decides. "I'm gonna kiss you now." He does, and Spencer fiddles with Ryan's shirts, pulling him closer. "Love you," Ryan gasps in between kisses. He hadn't realize before how long he'd been waiting to hear Spencer say it. The words have been hovering behind his tongue since he _met_ Spencer.

Maybe if Spencer dared to say "I love you," Ryan should try something daring. He's always let Spencer make the first move, even though Spencer is a year younger and not as cool. Ryan kind of figured that the first move goes to the sanest person. Now, though, fair is fair, and Ryan pushes Spencer's t-shirt up, messing with one of his nipples. He deserves a fucking purple heart for that.

"Holy—" Spencer's mouth is perfectly round. "Ryan, Ryan, oh my God, don't stop."

Ryan tilts his head, interested. Ok, he can do that. He brushes his thumb gently over Spencer's nipple, and when Spencer makes a crazy noise, he twists it a tiny bit. This time Spencer makes a noise loud enough that the people in the next room over can probably hear it, but that just makes Ryan even happier. Maybe he hasn't failed life quite yet. You can't drop out of life. He reminds himself to write that down when they're done making out.

Then again, why wait? Still making Spencer flip out, he uses his other hand to reach for the desk, where his pens are. Just one more inch. His fingers brush the end of a pen, and he manages to grab hold of it without taking his other hand off Spencer. Spencer's eyes are still shut, and Ryan scribbles the line on his arm.

"Hey," Spencer says, sitting up a little. "Ryan. What the actual fuck are you doing?"

"Um." He pauses, pen poised over his arm.

Spencer starts to laugh. "You _asshole_. You have to be writing all the time, don't you? Even when you're asleep, I'll bet."

"Well, yeah. Kinda. Sorry." He bites his lip, itching to just finish the thought being spelled out on his arm.

Spencer grabs him and kisses him. "I have to go, anyway. Write your stupid stuff. Love you."

While he's picking up his stuff, Ryan can't stop grinning. Way to rock, life. As Spencer is leaving, though, Ryan's roommate comes in. He gives Spencer a weird look and mutters something to Ryan about his "faggy boyfriend." It's worse that there's no real malice or conviction in his voice, like it's something he says everyday. He probably does.

"Hey, Tyler," Ryan says despondently, watching Spencer leave.

Tyler gives him a weird look. "My name's Kevin, dude."

*

Ryan doesn't exactly have friends at college. Given how much time he spends in his room, he's not really surprised, but at least he's pretty enough that a few girls want to hang out with him and smart enough that few of the geekier boys think he's neat.

Spencer laughs at him about it over the phone. "You're a disaster," he says.

Ryan privately agrees, and it sucks, but at least he still has Spencer. He has Brent, too, oddly enough. Brent keeps calling him to see how he's doing, or just to chat. Ryan never liked Brent very much, but now he's starting to think he's kind of ok. Distance seems to improve matters, maybe because he doesn't have to see Brent's stupid face.

Ryan joins a band for a little while. He finds a couple guys from his music class and his writing class, and they get around to mentioning that they play instruments, and he mentions that, hey, he does that too, and they're all set. They play punk rock stuff on the edges of campus, and Ryan hates every second of it. They want him to sing, and he can't sing, not really, not like Brendon Fucking Urie can.

They do a lot of cover songs and some stuff one of the guys (Jake? Dave?) wrote, mostly about blood and screaming and how his girlfriend is a bitch.

Ryan scribbles desperate little lyrics in the margins of his notebooks in class, things that are not and never will be punk rock. Next to them, he sometimes writes _I'm sorry I'm not Mark Hoppus_. Maybe Mark Hoppus has mental issues, but as least he's a in _real_ band.

For three weeks, Ryan doesn't mention his band to Spencer. It would be weird, because Spencer would ask the band's name, and Ryan wouldn't be able to remember it. He'd also feel as though he were betraying Spencer, and that doesn't even make any _sense_. Ryan already left their band and made it clear that he wasn't coming back, so it won't be a shock to Spencer that he's moved on.

It's not fair, though. If he not in Panic—or, no, in Bleeding White, he shouldn't be in any band, and this new one isn't exactly a step up. No one even comes to see them play, like his friends back home did.

Spencer keeps visiting on weekends pretty continuously, meaning that Ryan has to schedule guilt-fueled band practices on weeknights. He gets his work done in between, because sleep isn't exactly a priority, but he's heard that's normal for a college kid.

People keep calling him really early, too.

"Hey," Brent says at eight o'clock on a weekday when he really should be in school. He sounds a lot more cheerful than he usually does. Maybe it's because Ryan is far away and not being a dick when they talk.

"Hey," Ryan says carefully, shaking off half-sleep.

"Listen, do you want to come home and visit this weekend? I can't make it over there, so . . ."

Couldn't Brent missing him wait until after they were both done with classes? Ryan thinks about asking that, but he's too tired. He hasn't been sleeping too well lately. "Uh, I guess," he says. Brent's request is sinking in. Come home for the weekend. Home. Stay in his house. "Or not," he says quickly, feeling his stomach twist.

There's a pause, and then Brent says, "Oh, shit. I mean, yeah. Sorry. 'Cause of your . . .yeah."

Ryan isn't really sure what Brent and Brendon think about his dad, what stories they've made up. Do they think his dad hits him? He flinches. They probably do. They wouldn't be totally wrong, only mostly wrong. "Yeah," he says, because it's easier than explaining that he doesn't want to know whether or not his dad's in the hospital again. He isn't sure why hate is so much easier to believe than love.

He hangs up on Brent, feeling his head buzz slightly. He's sick of everyone being careful, Brent being careful, everyone—

His head droops forward. He's too tired. He's sick of—

He's sick of people always walking on—

_eggshells. Ryan dreams. He's always had nightmares, but now he doesn't know what to call them. They're not bad dreams, exactly. They're fairy tales, fables, slick, haunted stories about death and life and more trivial, damaged things._

He wakes up sweating at three in the morning and, half-asleep, he pulls a pen out of his backpack and begins to write. The words come easily when he's not properly awake, words about violence and glass slippers and themes that should be familiar but aren't, like love and bravery and happy endings. After an hour of scribbling, he falls asleep on the floor.

The next aftrenoon, he makes the mistake of taking out the story and looking at it. In the light of day, the words look flat and dirty and unremarkable.

He keeps on writing, though, stories for class and stories on his own time. His professor tells him to stop writing like Chuck Palahniuk. Fair enough. Ryan will be even freakier. He writes short stories, sometimes only a few lines, stories, _prickling with fear, close to bone and sensitive as the belly of a frog_. He picks up his pen and looks around him. He fell asleep in class again.

This goes on for days. He doesn't sleep at night, just in class, and when he's reading. Maybe he's reading the wrong books, but he keeps dreaming about things out of fairy tales or twisted children's books, dripping with blood and diamonds and consequences.

_The price is too high_, he finds himself writing as he wakes up in class one day. He rubs his eyes. If he didn't know better, he'd say he were possessed. As it is, he thinks he's just tired.

He tries drawing instead, but the long white corridors that always come out of his pen remind him of his dad, and he stops, putting all the drawings in the trash and taking the trash out as soon as he can.

When he can't stand it any more, he calls Spencer. As soon as Spencer says hello, Ryan says, "If someone were going insane, would he know?"

Spencer sighs. "What's wrong now?"

"I keep having nightmares."

". . . Too much Chuck Palahniuk."

Sometimes Ryan wonders if Spencer is psychic. Honestly, that's what he thinks about maybe twenty percent of the time. Spencer's brain powers. "You should be a psychologist," he says, embarrassed at the relief flooding his voice.

"It doesn't really take a psychologist to tell that guy's got serious issues, Ryro."

Ryan climbs into bed and puts a blanket over his head. Spencer waits patiently on the other end of the phone for Ryan to get ready to talk again. "Ok," Ryan says, "I'm under the blankets because I'm freaked out and I think I'm going insane and I can't stop writing about hospitals."

There's a brief silence. Ryan likes to think of these as Spencer-thinking-silences, and he likes them, because they let him know that Spencer is totally on the case, thinking of a cure. "Ok," Spencer says, "First of all, snap out of it. You _wish_ you were going insane. It's not as cool as it sounds, I'll bet. Second of all, you're just lonely and stuff. Not crazy. And . . . Ryan, this is the first time in your _life_ that you've been away from him. It must be weird. You must be worried."

Ryan's breath hitches. If he talks, he'll cry. He really doesn't want to cry.

After a second, Spencer says, "I know. Listen, my mom's calling me, but I'll talk to you tomorrow. Unless you're not ok yet. Are you ok yet?"

If he says he's not ok, Spencer will stay on the phone. Knowing that is enough to make him ok. "Yeah," he says.  
"Love you."

Ryan hangs up, but he knows Spencer knows he loves him too. How could he not?

Ryan quits his band the next day. They don't exactly mind, because it turns out that Ryan wasn't wrong about his singing abilities. Maybe if he'd cared more he would have sucked less. He doesn't miss the feeling of the guitar under his fingers, and he's sure he won't miss the callouses.

The day after that, Ryan texts Spencer, explaining about the band and how it sucked and how they wanted him to sing and how he quit.

Spencer calls him. "Hey, how about you don't waste your money texting me a novel, ok?"

Ryan leans his head against the phone. "Mm. What? Sorry."

"Are you awake?"

He's not, exactly. He recalls being awake kind of a lot lately, but he doesn't feel like he is right now. His vision blurs.

"Hey. Been sleeping?"

"No. Not 'cause of the dreams, though. They're better. I'm just freaked. All my music is shitty. I feel like I'm going to die in my sleep. I want to drop out."

There's a long silence. Then Spencer says, "You could listen to better music."

So Ryan starts to. He tries The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Queen. None of them are Spencer.

Then one night, Spencer sends him a file of their new stuff. Ryan skims the email that goes along with it.

_Hey, Ry-Ry,_

We've been messing around with some songs in GarageBand, and I thought I'd send them over. I get it if you don't want to listen to them, but I think you'd like them.

-Spencer

P.S. My drums sound awesome.

Ryan smiles, to his own surprise. Nothing about Brendon and his amazing voice. Maybe he'll listen.

The music doesn't sound like pop or punk or rock, it sounds like lightning and maple sugar. Ryan lies back on his bed and shuts his eyes, listening to the music pour out of his shitty computer speakers. He wonders who wrote the words. Maybe Brendon. He tries to muster up a little hate for Brendon, but it doesn't really work. The music is soothing, too good for a high school band, and Ryan wants to cry.

Instead, he sits up and opens the internet, half a plan forming. Before he can do anything about it, though, the next song comes on and punches him in the face. The lyrics might be about him. They might be about anyone. A girl, a city. It's a love letter addressed to everything. He shuts his eyes, breathing hard. Brendon Fucking Urie.

Three days later, he's messing around on Livejournal with the idea still brewing the back of his head. He's only a few clicks away from what could be a huge mistake or what could be a Spencer's dream come true. Part of him knows that sitting around and making other people's dreams come true is kind of weird, like he's a fairy godmother or something. Something in his mind stirs, the thing that's still trying to tell him upsetting fairy tales.

He clicks around Pete Wentz's LJ for a long time, thinking. Would this be some massive breach of etiquette? He doesn't actually care very much, but if Pete hates him forever he'll probably have to kill himself. He sighs and writes the comment anyway.

_hey  
my friends band is crazy about your stuff  
want to hear a demo?_

-ryanross

He digs up the file on his hard drive, debating about whether or not to upload and link it. If Pete never replies, Ryan may lose his chance. He links the file.

A smiles hovers at the edge of his mouth and his finger hovers over the enter key. Then he clicks.

He shouldn't be able to sleep from the excitement and worry, but he ends up sleeping better than he has in weeks. No images or words float around him, leaving him half asleep, half just upset. When he wakes up, his head is clear, and he checks his email before class.

There's actually a reply.

_ryan_

thats fuckin amazing, whats your friends band? i might want to meet them.

-xo  
peter

Ryan's stomach flips with excitement. Oh God, Pete Motherfucking Wentz wants to meet their band, they're going to get signed, they're going to get _famous_—

He wants to die. He wants to take back all the stupid, snide remarks and the refusals to come back to the band. It's not even about being famous, it's about his dreams, or things that were his dreams a few months ago. They're just Spencer, Brendon, and Brent's dreams now. He sighs and tries to decide what to do.

He could shoot him back a comment with the name of the band and a link to Spencer's Myspace. He could link Spencer up with Pete and let his own connection with Pete go. On the other hand, he could slip in a postscript about how he's always been a fan, maybe more than Spencer has, and how maybe he and Pete could talk sometime. Would it sound like a stupid come-on from a scene-queeny kid? Probably, because that's what it _would_ be. Everyone wants to be best friends with a rock star. Then again, some people are freaks like Ryan, who want to turn their best friends into rock stars. Ryan writes _Panic! At the Disco_, deletes it, and writes,

_bleeding white. his names spencer smith._

He doesn't sign it, he just includes a link to Spencer's Myspace. Then he goes to class.

*

"RYAN!"

Ryan holds the phone away from his ear and blinks at it. "Spencer? It's like five in the morning." It's closer to seven, but Ryan was up really late writing a story that wouldn't get out of his head.

"You seriously, seriously need to stop stalking Pete Wentz over Livejournal! I am so not kidding right now!"

Ok, that's embarrassing. It's been high on the list of things Spencer was very definitely never meant to find out. At least Spencer probably doesn't know that Ryan's been doing it for _him_.

"Do you really think it's going to get us signed?"

Ryan apparently underestimated Spencer. "Uh. How did you find out about that?"

"Because he _messaged_ me." Spencer sounds mad, or just vaguely hysterical.

Ryan laughs. "Your life is about to become so, so awesome."

Spencer hangs up on him, and Ryan lies back in bed, feeling pretty pleased. He's going to make stardom happen for Spencer, whether or not Spencer wants it. Behind the pride, though, there's a weird, terrifying empty feeling in his stomach. Pete Wentz was supposed to be _his_. He could not get more creepy and possessive, but he doesn't really care. He wanted to talk to Pete about writing or insomnia or anything, really. Wondering if he gave that up when he quit the band out of spite, he rolls over and tries to get back to sleep.

That night, Spencer calls again. Ryan is pretty sure ninety percent of his calls come from Spencer.

"Ryan." Spencer's voice is breathless on the other end of the phone line. He sounds like he does when he first wakes up in the morning, tired and excited and pleased.

Ryan doesn't dare say anything besides, "Yeah?"

"We . . . Ok, you're not going to fucking believe this."

Ryan's ready to believe anything at this point. Fairy tales, success stories.

"We're going to have a recording contract."

It takes Ryan a second to process the words, and when he does, he's not as upset as he thought he would be.

Later, though, he's exactly as upset as he thought he would be. He lies awake, trying not to think about the two tests he has tomorrow, and he wonders why Spencer thought it was ok to do this to him. The worst part is, he can't complain, because that would sound like jealous whining. He can't even try to explain how he's feeling, because he doesn't really understand. This means Spencer won't even be going to college, he knows with an upsetting certainty. It'll just be Ryan who's stuck here while the others are becoming superstars.

*

He starts camwhoring again because he doesn't know what else to do. Spencer hasn't called for three days. He texted once, but Ryan deleted the message without reading it. He tries to keep up with his homework, but he'd rather post pictures of himself on the internet, ridiculous makeup scrawled across his face. The jeans he buys become absurdly small, and he wonders if it's because he's trying to be emo or because he's really just losing a lot of weight.

He wonders what will happen if Spencer gets famous. Will people bug him about Ryan, the best friend he's too close with? Will Spencer tell them the truth? Will there even be any truth to tell anymore?

Maybe he'll go home next weekend. Tyler sure won't miss him. Maybe he should kill Tyler and show everyone. At least home is full of familiar, albeit painful things, things Ryan knows how to cope with. He shouldn't have to cope with Spencer suddenly getting everything he ever wanted while Ryan is left to write papers and go to the library and feel lousy when girls on the internet say he's pretty. Pretty won't be good enough to make Spencer stay. They know each other too well for that.

He wonders if a preemptive strike is the best way, breaking up with Spencer before Spencer breaks up with him. He's sure Spencer would be really nice about it, pulling a sort of Superman thing. It's for your own good, and all that. Ryan shivers. Losing Spencer wouldn't be good for him. It would probably kill him. Maybe he should call Brent for advice. He sighs, wondering when he hit rock bottom and if maybe Brent is a secret relationship genius.

Thinking about Brent reminds him of Brendon, and he feels sick. Maybe Spencer wants a famous boyfriend, or someone he can see while he's on the road. He wishes he'd seen the Brendon threat before, but Brendon wasn't the one putting noodles in Spencer's ear. Ryan glares at his wall and considers writing a story about someone who steals people's girlfriends and then falls down a well and dies horribly for great justice. Then again, maybe Brendon would be best as a fairy tale prince, someone's youngest son, the unexpected hero surprising everyone and saving the day. That's probably more accurate. Maybe they just leave out the part of the story where he lures someone else's princess out of her tower, away from the supposedly evil king who was keeping her there. Ryan frowns. That's the problem with stories. It's all a matter of perspective.

He thinks about that horrible saying about winners writing the history books. Well, fine. History will know how awesome Brendon was, but maybe literature will know about Ryan. He'll just write his petty, bitchy stories until someone accepts them as true. He glances at his phone, wishing he could call Spencer and stop being so bitter.

Then Spencer texts him a bunch of girly less-than-threes, and Ryan can't breathe. "I love you," he tells his phone.

*

Ryan survives his first year of college. He doesn't tell anyone how close he came to failing in that simple task, he just sinks back into summer like he never left home. It almost feels like he didn't, and he sort of wishes he'd decided to go somewhere further away.

He doesn't want to write during the summer, mostly because no one's around to combat the freaky stuff that goes down in his head whenever he does. Spencer is still in Vegas, but he spends all his time in the studio with Brendon and Brent. The studio. It's so surreal, and Ryan can't even process it, mostly because he doesn't want to. If Spencer becomes a star, Ryan will probably throw himself off a building. He decides to write a story about that, then he thinks better of it and calls Spencer.

Spencer's phone is off, and it takes him all day to call Ryan back. When he finally does, Ryan's ready to yell at him, but he doesn't actually have a good reason to. "Hey, asshole," he says, using his pissed-off voice anyway.

"I'm coming over," Spencer says, and he hangs up.

Ryan is feeling guilty enough by the time Spencer gets there that he's waiting on the lawn ready to apologize. The grass is cool under his bare feet, and it makes him want to tell a different kind of story for once, one with less neat little details and more uncomplicated skylines. "Hi," Ryan says.

Spencer smiles. "Hey. You look . . . I don't know. Like you're off in Ryan-land. I was going to yell at you, but now I guess I won't."

Ryan runs the rest of the distance of the yard and hugs Spencer, burying his face in Spencer's clean white t-shirt. "I miss you."

"Yeah, you're usually a jerk when you miss me." He hugs Ryan tighter.

They end up sneaking in the back door to hang out in Ryan's room, because Ryan doesn't want to deal with his dad right now. Both of them have been avoiding the house and each other all summer so far, which actually seems to do wonders for their relationship when they actually see each other. Ryan isn't used to getting along with his dad. He's not really used to getting along with anyone. They have that in common, anyway.

Tonight, though, his dad is drinking, and Ryan doesn't want to see that. He doesn't really mind if Spencer does, because Spencer is his best friend, but Ryan is fed up with it. Also, truth be told, he kind of likes the feeling of sneaking around with his boyfriend. The divide in his brain between the person he thinks of as _my boyfriend_ and the person who's just Spencer is sharp and strange, and Ryan can't decide if it's a good thing. He thinks it is.

"Hey," Spencer says, "You cleaned you room. You must have been really bored without us."

And ok, he was. Because those three are his only friends, and it's pathetic. Instead of admitting that, he glares at Spencer. "I'm not messy. I'm the neatest person I know. I always clean my room, unlike you. You've seen my dorm room, and it's awesome and your _face_ is really bored."

"Wow. Several comebacks in one."

Ryan flops on his bed and smiles. "So, how's the album going?" He's amazed that he's able to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Maybe right now, in this room, with his music playing quietly and summer coming in the window, he isn't bitter.

Spencer tilts his head a little, like he's surprised Ryan asked. "I don't know. Mostly good, I guess. I mean, it's amazing. It's everything I've ever wanted to do." He sits on the bed next to Ryan, almost too carefully. "But it's weird not having you there."

Ryan's feet are cold, and he pulls himself upright, tucking them under a blanket. "Yeah. I know." Whoa. The first step is admitting you have a problem. He bites his lip, because it's a stupid, painful metaphor, and he wishes he hadn't thought of it.

Spencer slings his arm over Ryan's shoulder. "Ok. Good. Then it's ok. You can be our biggest fan." He bites his lip. "Uh, I know how that sounded. You can be _my_ biggest fan."

Ryan wants to tell Spencer that he could never say the wrong thing, not really, because he's Spencer and he's awesome. Not perfect, because no one is, but perfect for fitting into Ryan's tiny, complicated world. "I'm already your biggest fan, jerk. Tell me about your stupid album." He surprises himself yet again by kissing Spencer's cheek.

Spencer grins. "Brendon keeps buying coffee and Brent broke a string, and everyone's freaking out because we can't come up with a good title for the album."

_The album,_. Like it's the only one in the world. For them, it probably is. Maybe for Ryan it is, too. He shrugs. "What about _Build God, Then We'll Talk_?" Yet another thing stolen from Chuck Palahniuk. Someday Ryan will have to meet him and apologize, but he's afraid of getting ax-murdered or something.

Spencer grins. "It's perfect. I knew it would be." He looks a little hesitant, though.

"You don't have to use it."

"No, it's good. It's not that. It's just . . . Look, Brendon and Brent feel a little weird that you get to decide everything about the band. I told them that you don't _ask_ to butt in, but they're still . . . weird."

Ryan sighs, feeling weighed down and angry and tired. "Yeah. No. It's ok. I get it."

Spencer rests his hand on Ryan's shoulder, squeezing a little. "I told them to shut the fuck up, if that helps."

It does. "Sure."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Sure. God, you should just be our manager or something."

Ryan was prepared to be jealous and upset about not being in the band anymore, but he didn't expect an attack from this new and surprising direction. "Oh. Yeah. Funny." It's too late. Ryan made a choice, and he's not going to back out now, maybe out of spite and maybe out of fear. He doesn't know which one would be worse. All he knows is that he wants to avoid talking about it badly enough that he kisses Spencer.

Spencer kisses him back for a second before pulling away. "Hey, ok, wait. You never do that before I do. What's up?"

"Ok," Ryan says carefully, "You caught me. I don't want to talk about stuff. But that doesn't mean I don't want to kiss you. Because I do." And he kisses Spencer again.

Spencer's hands play over Ryan's stomach, squeezing a little, almost like Spencer is trying to make sure Ryan hasn't lost too much weight. Ryan's heart skips when he realizes that's a legitimate worry. He shifts slightly, trying to get Spencer's hands elsewhere.

Apparently it works, because Spencer moves, rolling up against him, a little breathless. "Hi." Then he pulls away again, looking at Ryan. "I want to suck your dick," he says, going bright red.

Ryan can't even deal with the shock for a second. He's thought words like that a hundred times, but hearing them out loud in his best friend's voice is different. "Oh. Whoa." He pauses. "You sound like bad porn."

"Ha ha," Spencer says, but he still looks terrified. "Is that a yes?"

Ryan is pretty sure if he doesn't answer, Spencer's head will explode. "Y-yeah. Or, uh. We could. Um. Do . . . Like."

Spencer is composed enough to roll his eyes a little. "I'm guessing you mean sex?"

Holy shit. Ryan is going to freak out, because, yeah. They're really going to do this. He's spent enough time looking at websites and panicking about whether or not he could pull that off in real life, and he's not sure he's ready to do it without screwing up massively. He kisses Spencer again.

It's different, making out, because both of them know that they're not going to stop above the belt like they've always done before. Ryan's actually surprised that it took them this long.

Spencer's fingers catch in Ryan's belt loops, pulling Ryan under him. His mouth is hot and familiar, and Ryan's stomach flips. Spencer's fingers on his hips make him gasp stupidly. He narrows his eyes and goes for Spencer's nipple, because he knows that works. He's still surprised by the resulting look on Spencer's face, and the thought that he put it there is terrifying and amazing at the same time.

Spencer, of course, has lube and a condom, and after a bit of fumbling, he gets them out of his pocket.

They don't talk much after that. They don't need to discuss things—some stuff is obvious. At one point, Ryan looks up at Spencer, knees hooked over Spencer's shoulders. "I'm so your bitch."

"Shut up, I'm trying to concentrate and not harm you horribly."

Ryan shuts up.

It's awkward. And a little painful. And, ok, hilariously awful. But when they finally both come, Ryan flops back, exhausted and amazed.

Spencer nudges his nose into Ryan's shoulder. "I've never freaked out so much in my life. Maybe we should have gone with Panic after all."

*

In the two or three weeks after that, Spencer is in the studio, and when he's not, he's too tired to do much more than flop on Ryan's floor and listen to music. Ryan's getting a little sick of it.

One Friday night, he takes the bus to the mall and sits in the food court alone with a milkshake and fries, staring into space. He's never lost anything this big before. His virginity, sure. His mom, when she moved out. He's never lost his best friend and his boyfriend all at once. He wonders for one bizarre second if he'll see Spencer on TV someday.

He takes a sip of his milkshake and feels sick.

"Hey," someone says.

Ryan looks up. There's a guy with black hair hanging over one eye, wearing girls' jeans and a smirk, and he standing slouched a few feet away from Ryan's table.

Ryan looks away. He's pretty sure the guy is talking to him, but he doesn't want to deal with it, whatever it is.

Then the guy comes closer. "Holy shit," Ryan says.

"Yeah," Pete Wentz says.

"What are you doing in Vegas?" It comes out snappish, and Ryan can't believe himself. He's snapping at _Pete Wentz_.

Pete shrugs, ignoring Ryan's tone. "Watching your friends record their album. It's really cool, you know? Watching a baby band grow up."

Ryan looks away, back at his milkshake, suddenly incredibly self-conscious. Pete seems different in person, more laid back, better hair, less makeup. Ryan is more in love. He wonders what he'd do if Pete kissed him.

"Hey," Pete says, "You're spacing out. Are you ok?"

And now Ryan's making himself look like an idiot in front of his favorite celebrity. Pete recedes a little, becoming a magazine face again. Then Ryan surprises himself by saying, "No."

Pete sits, edging into the seat next to Ryan rather than across from him. Ryan smiles at Pete's skinny jeans, even skinnier than his own, even though Pete's legs aren't as small. "Ok," Pete says, "That really sucks. How come?"

Ryan never expected to be getting life advice from Pete Wentz. Of course, he fantasized about it on a weekly basis, but he never thought it would really happen. "I don't know," he says, annoyed that he's blushing. "I guess it's just stuff.. Spencer. Being in a band. I used to be in it too, you know." He hates how defensive and childish he sounds.

"Oh yeah? That's really cool. What'd you do?"

"Guitar. And singing. Guess Brendon does that now. And I wrote stuff."

Pete nods. "Yeah, if there's one thing they could use, it's a strong lyricist. I mean, I'm not really one to talk. I just write shit when I can't sleep, and Patrick makes it good."

Self-deprecating seems to be Pete's default setting. Ryan's head is buzzing with little stories about little old men who spins straw into gold and let princesses take the credit. "Yeah, right. You're . . ." He bites his lip, because he's a lame teenie, but he can't cut it out. "You're kind of the reason I started being into music. One of the reasons."

"Really? Whoa, that's so cool!"

Like it's so amazing that anyone would be inspired by Pete. Ryan shakes his head. "Yeah. But then I just . . . I gave up the band. For no reason." College wasn't a reason, just an excuse, and Ryan wonders what he's so afraid of.

Pete squeezes his arm, and it's totally unfair that he's so goddamn charming. "Hey, can I tell you something? So, I'm not really in a band. Like, Andy can play drums like a maniac, and Joe is a fucking _God_ on guitar, and Patrick . . ." Pete bites his lip like there aren't any words for how he feels about Patrick's voice. "Anyway. I can't do anything. I mean, I can fake it on the bass, but that's about it. I'm a really shitty player. Really."

Ryan smiles, oddly comforted. "Yeah, but you're their frontman."

"I don't get it." Pete shakes his head. "Patrick is so much prettier than me. It should be him. He's just so shy and everything."

"You look like a mother hen protecting its baby," Ryan says, delighted.

"No way, man. I'm a mother _dinosaur_. I'll eat up anything that messes with Patrick." He twists his face into his classic _rar_ expression.

Nothing Pete has said should solve Ryan's problems, but for some reason it feels like it has. "Can I buy you a milkshake?" he asks.

Pete untwists his face. "You bet."

*

That summer is one of the stranger periods of Ryan's life. He ends up actually coming to hang around at the studio while his friends record, especially on the days Pete is there. He's very careful not to get a crush on Pete, and it isn't too hard. Pete doesn't go more than half an hour without mentioning Patrick, and besides, Spencer is right there, being slightly round and ridiculously talented and very much Ryan's best friend.

Ryan has to admit that Brendon's voice is only getting better, too. He still looks like a dumb kid, but his voice is stretchy and amazing and new. Even Brent is working really hard, probably because Spencer is making him. Ryan wants to be a little more fair to Brent, though, because he seems genuinely pleased that Ryan is around so much. Maybe they can both work with that.

The first day Ryan shows up there, Brendon bounces up to him like an excited puppy. "Hi, Ryan! We really missed you. I mean, like, I know we saw you. But not enough. It's like college is jail." He nods sagely.

"Ok," Ryan says.

Brendon tugs on his hand, calming down a little. "Hey, you want to see me sing." He sounds confident, and Ryan is pissed off that Brendon is growing as a person without his help. Ryan trails after him to where the rest of the band are getting ready to play.

Spencer jumps up immediately. "Hey, my favorite Ryan."

Ryan buries his face in Spencer's shoulder. "Huh. Hi. Came to see you play."

It turns out that they're even better in person than on the demo CD. They also sound different than they did when Ryan was with them. He never thought he'd been so much of their sound, and maybe he wasn't. Maybe they're just able to branch out and do what they really want now that he's gone. He thought he was too quiet to be controlling.

Spencer looks _amazing_ when he plays. Ryan was always so busy trying not to sing badly that he never focused on Spencer's drumming, but now he has a chance to just watch Spencer thrash on his drums and fling his hair around and look completely gorgeous. His eyes are closed, and he looks like the drumkit is his entire world. Ryan flashes back to being in bed with him, and he wants to do it again. He's not even scared.

"You're really, really different when you sing," he tells Brendon after they finish.

Brendon's face immediately falls. "Is that a bad thing?"

Ryan doesn't want to answer. Complimenting Brendon is not his favorite thing. "I don't know. Not really."

He spends the rest of the summer hanging out with Pete more than he ever thought he'd get the chance to. He even shows him some of his writing. Whenever Pete reads a story, he goes quiet and says, "That's really, really amazing, Ryan." He doesn't look disconcerted, like everyone else who reads Ryan's stuff does.

One afternoon, he shows Ryan a copy of his own book, _The Boy With the Thorn in His Side_.

"I've read it," Ryan says. In fact, it probably explains a lot more about his writing than Chuck Palahniuk does.

Pete never stops being surprised when he finds out that people have heard of his stuff, and he's even more shocked when they _like_ it. Ryan never stops being pleased by his smile when he finds out.

One night, the band is in the studio really late, and Pete and Ryan are waiting around for them to be done. Pete doodles on Ryan's arm with a pen, little snippets of words. Some of them are lines from Ryan's stories, and Pete mouths them as he writes, quoting them back to Ryan.

The pen is cold against Ryan's skin, and the hairs on his arms stand up. Pete presses the tip of the pen into his arm hard, and Ryan shivers. He wonders if it's because he's reminded of Spencer, or because he's not.

"Hey," Pete says. He shoves his bangs out of his eyes, still holding the pen against Ryan's arm. Ryan's breath catches in his throat. Pete is close enough that Ryan can feel his breath like a ghost against Ryan's skin, and Ryan is ready to say, "No, don't do this, I love Spencer," but he can't make himself speak. There's a weird, buzzing tension under his skin, and all he wanted was to keep this tension around forever without doing anything about it.

Pete's eyes fall shut a little, and he leans forward, but before Ryan can push him away, Pete's phone rings. He blinks, and Ryan feels the spell break. "Uh, hello?" Pete says. His voice is rough.

Ryan shuts his eyes and leans against the wall, listening to Pete fumble his way through a conversation about how he's sorry he stayed in Vegas when he was supposed to be meeting with his band. Eventually, he hangs up and looks at Ryan sheepishly. "That was Patrick. I need to fly out."

And Ryan realizes that every kiss with Pete would be interrupted by Patrick. Still, he decides not to mention anything to Spencer.

*

In September, Ryan goes back to school. This is overshadowed by the fact that Bleeding White's first album comes out at the same time. Ryan skips class for two days just to listen to it, fighting between rage and love. This makes him think of Green Day, so he throws the CD across the room, and puts on _American Idiot_ in.

The next day, the CD is too scratched to play. Ryan swears and goes out to buy a new copy. In one store, they're sold out. He wants to punch the clerk, but he doesn't.

When he's not busy almost failing out of college, Ryan starts to notice a new scene emerging. _The_ scene, in fact. 80s bands, bright colors, and kissing boys are suddenly all in. He's still stuck in the dying bitchy punk scene where Blink 182 is breaking up. He comments on their Myspace to say he's sorry. _Yeah_, he thinks, _Sorry that your friendship means so little to you_. He crosses "Meet Mark Hoppus" off his to-do list.

Without Spencer, without Blink, Ryan falls back into bad habits. Food seems pretty unimportant, or at least less important than posing in front of his webcam. He's getting enough hits on his Livejournal that's he's starting to feel kind of weird about it. So he starts doing it more. He walks the line between photo-shoot trashy and borderline pornographic very carefully, hiding the fact that even taking the pictures turns him on. He takes one with his back to the camera and his hand between his legs.

He buys a new notebook and writes, _What a shame your groom is a whore_. He wonders how much of an internet fashion porn kid he'll have to be before Spencer leaves him. Then again, maybe it won't even take that much. By the beginning of Ryan's second semester, Spencer is getting ready to go off to fucking _Europe_ to tour.

"Touring," Spencer says, stunned. "In Europe." He's lying in Ryan's dorm room, a single this time, and holding Ryan's hand.

"Yeah," Ryan says. "I know. Wow."

"I'll miss you."

Ryan sticks his face in Spencer's hair. "Yeah. You too." Too much to handle, maybe.

"I wish I could bring you." A question hangs on the end of the sentence.

Ryan wonders for a second whether or not to take him up on his offer. He's always wanted to go to Europe, or anywhere, really. But it's Europe or college, and he finds himself choosing college again, for some reason he still can't figure out. He thinks he's still afraid, or too obsessed with sitting on the floor of his dorm room at one in the morning and writing. He's finally getting the hang of doing that without nightmares, and he isn't ready to give that up.

He nuzzles Spencer's cheek and doesn't say anything.

*

Spencer calls Ryan from Europe. "Brent is being so fucking weird," he says.

There are a million things Ryan could say, most of them sharp and nasty and ending in, "So just kick him out already, would you?" He's getting better at being less of a dick, though, so he just says, "Maybe you should talk to him. He's pretty decent at it, ok? I mean, not awful. So stick with him. Maybe he just needs a hug or something."

Two hours later, Brent calls. Ryan thinks the three of them must have the biggest phone bills of anyone in the world. "Hey," he says.

"I'm sorry," Brent says.

Ryan is confused. This isn't how their conversations usually go. Usually, Ryan judges Brent a whole lot, makes snide remarks, and gets ignored and hung up on. Alternately, Brent calms Ryan down from a near-panic attack and Ryan tries and fails to thank him with grace. "What are you sorry about?" he asks.

"For almost fucking up the band."

Even more confusing. "Dude, apologize to Spencer. Or Brendon. Not me."

Brent sighs into the phone. "Yeah, but . . . I already did. And I think you need to hear it more."

Ryan feels cold. "It's not my band."

"It kind of is, isn't it? Ever since you left, it's been your pet project. I mean, you got us signed, you helped keep us focused when we were recording, you told everyone about our stuff . . . And I don't want to mess that up. So, sorry."

Ryan didn't ever think of that. "Oh," he says. "Well, that's ok. We're good."

"Good." Brent sounds really relieved. "God, you should just be our manager."

Ryan hangs up on him.

Later in the week, he ends up searching YouTube for a concert video from Europe. The blurry cameraphone video captures something both amazing and upsetting. Brendon looks like some sort of top-hatted _God_, and Ryan hates him all over again. He also hates the fact that he won't get off Spencer's drum kit. When can't he bother Brent like a normal person would?

The songs sound great live, different. Ryan wonders what his songs would have sounded like, and he's pretty sure they wouldn't have been as good, which is both a relief and a blow.

He finds a new band on campus to join, composed of one of the same guys as before and a couple new ones. They play straight-up punk rock, something Ryan can get behind for once. He's sick of trying to write lyrics that no one wants to hear.

Their first real show is in a tiny punk rock club that's really too shitty for Vegas. The room smells like beer, and Ryan isn't really sure what he's doing when he gets up on stage. He's just doing guitar this time, because when they asked him to sing, he flat-out refused. He just wants something to be easy for once, and guitar is easy. The chords aren't even complex, because it's not that sort of band, but Ryan has a much better feeling about it than he did about his last band. The new one reminds him of Blink.

People end up throwing bottles at the stage, but that's kind of a mark of success in the punk scene. Ryan has all the rules in his head, but he hasn't seen most of them in practice. It's weird.

After the show, the drummer says, "Hey, man, you ok?"

Ryan realizes that he's pale and shaking, and he doesn't even know why.

When he gets home after the show, he doesn't call Spencer, and he tells himself it's because the call would be too expensive. His dad has been bugging him about that. It's nice, for once, for them to fight about normal things, and Ryan's really glad that they're actually doing the phone calling thing this year. He could really use someone to talk to, and his dad doesn't seem like a bad candidate. He wonders if he should mention Spencer, because that's what most of his problems come back around to. Talking about Spencer as a best friend and nothing else doesn't really get across the desperation Ryan is feeling. He doesn't dare say anything, though, because he and his dad are just starting to fix things.

Spencer calls less and less, too. Ryan figures touring is a time-consuming business, or maybe licking Brendon's ear in interviews is time-consuming, who knows. YouTube should be taken off the web before Ryan has a fucking panic attack, seriously.

By the time December comes around, Ryan is feeling incredibly lonely and upset and uncertain. Then, on one of his worst days, when a story isn't coming out right and Bleeding White has a new Brendon-centric video, Pete calls. "Hey," he says, "You want to listen to the demo of our new album? It's called _Infinity on High_."

"I _know_," Ryan says, stunned. "And yeah. I want to."

Pete sends him a demo and he lies on his back, listening. It's different from their earlier albums, less painful, and maybe Ryan can take a cue from Pete and try to stop hurting.

His plan is foiled. When he should be studying for a French test (he's only taking the class so he can put pretentious French bits into his stories), he goes on YouTube instead, obsessively watching all the interviews he can find of Bleeding White. They're getting big in Europe, and that means they're getting big in the United States. One question that's pretty constant in interviews is, "How have people responded to your very homoerotic stage presence?"

Ryan cringes every time. Spencer doesn't, though. He just smiles or laughs and shoots off some variation of, "They must not mind too much, because we're not getting booed off the stage or anything."

Brendon seems to enjoy talking at great length about how awesome it is that they can kiss each other on stage, because it's such an _awesome_ message to gay kids, and—

Ryan is really sick of Brendon's stupid face. He calls Brent.

"Oh, hey, Ry. What's up?"

"You need to sit between Spencer and Brendon in interviews," Ryan says.

"What? Oh, God. You're so _paranoid_."

"Ok. I'm paranoid. Do it."

And because Brent doesn't suck as much as he might, he does do it. Ryan beams the next time an interview airs, because the three of them look amazingly uncomfortable and fantastic. They're also wearing really boring clothes, just like they do on stage. Ryan frowns. They're not selling themselves very well. He could do better.

This sucks. He's still obsessed with being in this stupid high school band that he quit a year and a half ago, or at least obsessed with their wardrobe. He'd dress Brendon up in full-body armor so he can't get his stupid long arms all over Spencer without falling over. And maybe Spencer could have a neat jacket, and a scarf . . . Ryan frowns and decides to write an outfit like that into one of his stories.

The teachers have stopped hating his stories, or at least they've stopped asking if he has a therapist. Too bad the issues in his stories were never his to begin with, and that he keeps his own problems locked up in his chest where they can't be touched or fixed. Now, though, he writes abstract, whimsical stories, trying something new for a change. The teachers like them, but he doesn't, not exactly. They don't have anything real in them.

At the end of the second semester, there's a heatwave, and Ryan starts to hate everything, including and especially Spencer. There have been way too many YouTube videos for him to just forget about, and Brent is failing in his task of being a buffer zone. Brendon ends up in Spencer's lap in practically every interview, and Ryan wants to punch him out. As soon as summer starts and they're both around again, he will.

While Ryan is studying in his blistering hot room, Spencer calls, and Ryan even hates the Spencer-customized ringtone.

"Hey," Spencer says.

Spencer's voice is the last straw. "I'm sick of this," Ryan snaps. "I'm sick of you calling me up just because you feel like you have to. You don't have to. I don't even like you anymore."

Spencer is silent for a second before he hangs up.

Ryan spends all afternoon camwhoring instead of studying for finals. His tight pants are getting loose again. Someday the people who look at his LJ will start to worry about him, but they haven't yet. Someday Spencer will _stop_ worrying.

The next time Spencer calls, Ryan is in the middle of writing a short story. Ryan is amazed that Spencer wants to talk to him at all. "Hey," Spencer says as soon as Ryan answers, "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I don't know what I did, but I don't want to mess things up with you. But Ryan, I _know_ you. I've known you since we were kids. And I know you need to be eating more."

"I love you," Ryan says. Fine. He won't punch Brendon out.

"So, anyway," Spencer says, "I think maybe we should have phonesex. Um."

That's . . . new. Ryan fights through the shock for a second before kicking his notebook off the bed, feeling a little panicky. "Um, oh. Wow."

"Yeah. Even though we can't even be articulate _talking_ about it."

"Ahaha. Yeah. Um." Ryan wriggles backwards until he's propped up against his pillows a little. At least this way, Spencer doesn't have to see him make stupid faces.

"Ok." Ryan can hear Spencer taking a deep breath. "Uh . . . What are you wearing?" He can also hear Spencer trying not to laugh.

But if they're going to do this, Ryan wants to do it right. "A MCR t-shirt. The one with the vampire teeth. And jeans. They're really tight. And you can see my hipbones."

There's a brief silence. "Are you eating?"

Ryan laughs. "Yes. I promise. It's just my naturally fast metabolism. Now talk to me about your outfit."

"Ok. So, I'm wearing a t-shirt. Plain white. And, uh, boxers. Fuck, Ryan, maybe we shouldn't do this." For once, Spencer sounds as young as he is.

"Hey. I can do the talking." He pushes the phone closer to his ear and smiles. Sometimes he loves Spencer more than breathing, and if that means trying his hand at dirty talk, that's fine. Hey, he's a writer. He should be able to swing this.

"Awesome," Spencer says.

It had better be awesome. Ryan shifts a little, anxious. "Ok. You know, you look really hot in boxers. I like your legs. They're really fucking hot." He shuts his eyes, remembering. They _are_ really fucking hot. "Run your hand up the inside of your leg. Up to the edge of your boxers."

He can hear Spencer's breath hitch. "Keep talking."

"Put your other hand on your stomach."

"What do I do with the phone?" Spencer says.

Ryan sighs. "Hold it with your shoulder."

"That gives you strokes."

"I don't care," Ryan says firmly. "You look good." He's sure Spencer does. "Play with the waistband of your boxers. Um. Don't touch yourself yet."

"Holy shit, Ryan, holy shit."

"This is good," Ryan says, breathing fast. "Y-you're making me really hard, Spencer." It's a stupid porn line, and he backtracks. "I mean, of course you are. You're you. Hey. I'm unzipping my pants." He does it fast enough that Spencer will hear the noise of the zipper. "You're still not touching yourself, right?"

"Oh, God. No. I'm not."

"Ok, I want you to put your hand on your cock. Don't move it around, though." He's talking fast so he doesn't panic.

"God, Ryan, I need . . ."

"I know. Me too. But wait. I want you to listen to me jerk myself off."

"Oh. Ohmygod. Ok."

Ryan shoves his jeans down over his hips, clinging to the phone with his other hand. He can't believe they've never done this before. "Talk to me," he says, wrapping his hand around his cock.

". . . Think about my mouth. School's almost over. This summer, I'm going to—to suck you off."

Ryan is quite familiar with Spencer's mouth, and he arches up into his hand, glad that Spencer can't see him. "Yes, oh my God."

"Think about that. Think about me on my knees, looking up at you." He falters. "I want you to fuck my mouth."

One more quick slide of Ryan's palm, and he's coming, gasping into the phone. "Holy _shit_, Spencer Smith, where did you learn to talk like that?"

"I don't know, but can I please, please touch myself now?"

"Go ahead."

Spencer's little jerky gasps make Ryan's knuckles go white against the phone. "Tell me what you're doing," he says, breathless.

"Touching my dick," Spencer says, breathing even harder than Ryan is. "Thinking about fucking you. I want to—to bend you over your desk and fuck you so hard—"

Spencer sounds so young and so desperate, and Ryan shuts his eyes and bites his lip. "I love you, Spencer," he whispers.

When Spencer comes, Ryan doesn't want to hang up.

*

That summer, Spencer is away a lot, because the band is already in the studio working on the new album. Everyone in Vegas is talking about them, calling them the next big thing, stars, geniuses. The worst part is, Ryan doesn't disagree.

Then something happens that makes everything else insignificant.

Ryan calls Spencer. He can't hear over the rushing in his ears. "My dad," he says.

"Oh no. What now?" Spencer doesn't sound upset or sick of Ryan, just worried, but Ryan can barely register that.

"He's dead." He didn't think just saying two words could be so hard.

Spencer is with the band working on the album, but he cancels everything to come and spend the week with Ryan. Brendon and Brent don't come, but Ryan figures that's because Spencer asked them not to. He's grateful. He couldn't deal with anyone but Spencer right now. They don't even kiss all week. Spencer just holds Ryan, watching shitty cheerleader movies on TV and not talking too much. Usually when Ryan's upset, Spencer makes him talk about it, so he's glad that Spencer gets it. Getting it is kind of Spencer's thing.

On the third day, Ryan looks away from _Bring It On_ and says, "I just don't know what's going to happen."

Spencer squeezes his shoulder. "I do."

"Yeah?" He feels numb, hoping that Spencer's answer is good enough.

"You're going to move in with me."

Ryan's breath catches in his throat. "Y-yeah? But you're not even home. You're going to be off touring and stuff."

Spencer's hands are bigger than Ryan remembered. "Sometimes. But you only need a place during the summer, and my mom and my sisters would be totally cool with it. More than cool."

Ryan buries his face in Spencer's shoulder. "Cool."

Ryan goes back to college in the fall, exhausted and defeated and afraid. The end of summer was fuzzy around the edges, and school feels just as unreal. He wonders if he should start going to Spencer's house—it still feels too weird to call it home—for weekends, but he decides against it, because it still feels like he's imposing, and as long as he's at college, he should spend his weekends trying to make friends.

So far, that's not going very well. His campus band kicks him out as soon as he runs into them. "Sorry, man, but you didn't return our calls all summer."

"Oops," Ryan says. He doesn't care, not about this or anything else. He didn't even write during the last month and a half of summer, and he doesn't know how to get started again.

A week in, he's already got the first draft of a short story due. He sits at his desk, tapping his pencil across his keyboard, pressing random letters in hopes that he'll manage the works of Shakespeare. After a minute, he gives up and tries to study French, instead.

The words all blur together. He slams his book down on his desk and crosses the room to turn his TV on for the tenth time. It's almost nine, and at nine, there's an interview with Spencer on Fuse. People have drifted away from questions about stage gay, and now they keep asking if anyone in the band has a girlfriend, like that's the most important thing. Brendon told Ryan over the summer, very earnestly, that he wishes someone would ask about their music. Ryan wishes someone would, too.

Brendon has learned to be pretty flip about girlfriend-related questions, but Ryan can see him wanting to say something every time. Ryan wonders if Spencer told him not too. Then again, Brendon just stopped having trouble at home over being in a band rather than doing school stuff, so it's probably not a great idea for him to come out on TV.

As for Spencer, he always denies having a girlfriend, but he smiles at the camera when he's doing it, and Ryan knows it's for him. Defiance, comfort. Ryan glares at the TV. 9:01.

After a ketchup commercial, the interview comes on. Spencer is wearing an outfit that Brendon must have picked out, and Ryan is torn between being jealous and being pleased that Spencer doesn't look as stupid as usual. He's also pleased that Brent is back in his designated spot between Spencer and Brendon.

That doesn't seem to matter, though, because pretty soon Brendon is draping one of his supernaturally long arms over Brent to play with Spencer's scarf. Ryan is ready to fucking _do_ something about this. Like punch Brendon out for real this time. Or ask him when he got such a crush on Spencer.

He doesn't pay much attention to the rest of the interview, just to Brendon's fingers messing with Spencer's ear.

In the morning, he's sure things will look better, if only because that panicky, late distress will be temporarily out of his head. Spencer wouldn't cheat on him, not even with that unbelievably beautiful guy with lips like Angelina Jolie's—

Ryan takes a sharp breath and resigns himself to the fact that maybe Spencer is going to leave him.

The next day, he spends an hour debating whether or not stalking a Bleeding White fan community is creepy. He decides it is, and then he does it anyway.

Everyone is talking about the interview, and, even worse, they're using it as evidence that Spencer and Brendon have a thing. At least Ryan's not just being paranoid. He wants to comment, telling them that they're all wrong, and signing it "Spencer's real boyfriend, douchebags," but he's pretty sure they wouldn't believe him. Besides, they all make pretty good points, now that he looks at the footage again, and maybe they're not so wrong.

The next day, a photo shoot runs in _Rolling Stone_. Brendon is touching Spencer in every single picture.

Ryan calls Spencer. "I hate you."

"What, this again? What did I do, Ryan?" He sounds a little sorry, though, like maybe he knows what he did.

"Do you love him?" Ryan asks. It'll be better to just know.

"What? Oh God, Ryan, are you talking about Brendon?"

"You know I am."

Spencer sighs, long-suffering as ever. "I love _you_. I don't know how many times you want me to tell you. You're my best friend."

"Best friend doesn't mean you love me like that." He wants to push it, testing Spencer's limits until he's totally sure.

"But I do! How am I supposed to prove it?"

And that's when Ryan knows what he wants. "I want you to tell the media."

There's a long silence, and then, "Really?" He sounds cautious, and Ryan isn't surprised. Spencer never makes snap decisions, especially bad ones. Ryan doesn't care how bad this idea is, though, he wants it.

"Yeah," he says.. "Look, I know you think it might mess up your career, but it can't do _that_ much, can it? People are getting cooler about stuff. Even Pete makes out with guys."

"Yeah, but there's a difference between making out with guys and actually . . ." Ryan can hear Spencer's frown. "No, I get it. I guess I just wasn't thinking about it that much, with everything else. I'm not ashamed of you or anything, Ryan."

"I know. But your fans might be, right? That's the issue."

Spencer laughs, and Ryan is ridiculously relieved. "Ok," Spencer says, "So they might freak out. They'll learn to deal. Everyone will. I like you, you jerk, and I want you to stop flipping out every time you see Brendon within a ten-foot radius of me."

"Hate," Ryan says. "So much hate. I hate you."

"You too. I have to ask the guys about this, though. I mean it's their career too. But I think Brendon will be ok with it."

"You know that only makes me hate him more."

"Yeah, I know." He sighs. "Someday I'll get you to like the kid."

Ryan doesn't mention that he's the one who discovered how awesome Brendon was in the first place, before he realized that the sweet little jerk was a completely horrible human being.

*

Ryan marks off days on his calender until Bleeding White's second album comes out like he's some sort of teenie fangirl. He kind of is, though, because he has no shame about how obsessed he is with their music.

When album finally comes out, so does Spencer. It's no big deal, at least not on the band's end, just a quick line in an interview. The day of the album's release, there's an interview, and the girlfriend question comes up again. Spencer laughs a little nervously and says, "No, no girlfriend. I do have a really awesome boyfriend, though."

The interviewer hesitates like she's unsure whether or not to laugh. "Oh—really?"

"Yeah. His name's Ryan. We've been together since high school."

She opens her mouth to ask another question, but she's cut off.

"I thought maybe we could talk about our sound a little," Brendon says. His voice has a steely quality that Ryan has never heard before, and maybe Ryan doesn't hate him so much after all.

Ryan almost doesn't hear Spencer's call, because he's listening to the new album with his headphones on. When he finally picks up, Spencer sounds a little panicky. "It's in magazines! God, Ryan, why do people care about this stuff so much?"

"Hey," Ryan says, "Are you ok? Maybe I shouldn't have made you . . ."

"You didn't make me do anything. I wanted to. And I'm not sorry. It's just kind of huge."

"You should come over so I can hug you," Ryan says, angry at the world.

"You give lousy hugs. Too bony."

When Spencer shows up in his dorm, Ryan is writing. In the past day or so, he's been able to write again, and despite his dad's death, his stories are less wounded than before. "Hey," he says, immediately tossing the notebook away.

Spencer hugs him. "Hey. Stupid tabloids. But our manager says it'll die down and Pete's over the moon about it."

"He would be. He's pretty gay."

Spencer settles on the bed next to Ryan. "Yeah, but not _really_ gay. 'Gay above the waist.'"

Ryan doesn't mention what happened with Pete, because there's no point. It was something neither of them wanted. He also doesn't mention how _weird_ it is for a straight man to go on and on about his best friend like the guy is some sort of god. Instead, he just shrugs and says, "I guess. But anyway, I'm really glad you did this. And, y'know, thanks."

Spencer hugs him tighter. "Yeah. Thanks for whining till you got your way."

Ryan glows.

In even better news, the tour to promote the new album is in the U.S. Spencer attacks Ryan with a hug when he finds out, bursting into Ryan's dorm room in the middle of the afternoon. The sun is coming in the window and Ryan feels completely ok about life for the first time since his dad died.

"We'll be in Vegas, too," Spencer says. "I'll get you in for free."

Ryan shakes his head, smiling. "Where's the first tour date?"

"California. L.A., I think."

"Then I'm driving out to L.A."

Spencer calls him insane, but it doesn't work. He's determined to get away from Vegas, just for a few days. Screw classes. He's a good enough writer to sort of stay afloat without perfect attendance. Besides, maybe if he takes a roadtrip, he'll have more time to think, even though he's already over-thinking every second of every day.

The next day, he gets a call from an unknown number. "We're going on a roadtrip!" someone says as soon as Ryan answers.

"Um . . . ok?"

"It'll be so awesome. I'll bring soda and mix tapes and candy and we can live off the land. Oh, this is Pete, by the way. Pete Wentz."

Ryan's life is kind of _ridiculous_. "Oh. Uh, ok. Hi, Pete."

"Can I please come? If you let me come, you can even pick the music."

*

Ryan is a nervous driver, but Pete sitting in the passenger seat and eating circus peanuts is oddly calming. After seeing Pete over the summer, Ryan is comfortable enough with him to tell him how gross the circus peanuts are. "They're _orange_."

"They'll improve my eyesight."

Pete is Ryan's favorite. He wonders how there was ever a time when he had no idea that his favorite band dude was an ever bigger dork than him.

"Also," Pete says, "They're like giant peanuts. And it sounds like I just said giant penis. Huh."

Pete just doesn't shut up, and Ryan can't stop himself from grinning. "You're such a _loser_."

Pete puts his sneakered feet up on the dash. "Yeah. It's pretty cool." He frowns. "Look, I can only talk about peanuts for so long, so you should probably get it over with and tell me what's wrong."

"What?" Ryan says, frowning. "Hey, tell me Spencer didn't hire you to come along and be my personal therapist."

"Well . . ." He studies his circus peanuts. "No. It was my idea. I know you had a shitty summer with you dad and all, but you're also pretty messed up about Spencer."

Ryan is about to protest, but then he realizes that it's really, really true. He's never been more messed up about anything in his life, and that's pathetic, because Spencer is his best friend. He's supposed to fix things, not make them more confusing. Ryan sighs. "I guess . . . Look, it's stupid, but I think I'm just scared of losing him." Smooth. Maybe when he gets home he'll post that in a depressing, friends-locked, Livejournal entry.

Pete nods. "Yeah, I get it. You're afraid that now that he's a big star, he won't have time for a boring, normal boyfriend. That he'll be more into a certain totally gorgeous, possibly underage singer."

Ryan feels sick. "I just feel like shit whenever I see interviews or anything. He's always all wrapped around Brendon, and it's so weird, because he has this whole other life that I'm not even a part of, this whole crazy scene, and I'm just the civilian boyfriend that even the magazines ignore now."

"Hey." Pete reaches over cautiously to rub Ryan's shoulder. "I don't think that's how he thinks about it, though. Because seriously? You're not boring. You're smart, and you have all these _words_, and God, I wish I could write like that. And you know what's what. You know that band better than they do."

"Don't tell me I should be their manager," Ryan says, glaring at the road.

Pete pauses. "Ok. Well, I was about to, but I guess you already know." He shrugs. "I'm not going to tell you what to do. I'm just going to tell you that Spencer can't shut up about you when you're not there, and that he's really creeped out by the idea of dating Brendon. We talked about it." He tilts his head. "He's also really creeped out by the idea of me dating Brendon. Which is fair. So I guess I won't."

"You're _amazing_," Ryan says, wondering how many times Pete has saved his life.

Pete stares at his feet on the dashboard. "I'm not amazing. I wish everyone would quit saying that, because it's not true. Patrick's the one who . . ." He actually blushes.

They drive in silence for a few minutes, and Ryan feels better than he has in months. He just wishes he could find a way to fix Pete, too.

"So," Pete says after a while, "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course." What is Ryan's life, that he gets to listen to rock star's secrets?

Pete puts in a CD and skips tracks. "Listen."

The speakers flare music. "I wrote a goodbye note in lipstick on your arm when you passed out . . ."

Ryan doesn't want to be one of those tools who fills in his religion on Facebook as "music," but it's close to the truth. This has been one of his favorite songs since the album came out. When the last notes die away and Pete pushes eject, Ryan can't _breathe_. Finally, he manages, "So, what's the secret?"

Pete frowns, back to looking at his feet. "That song. It's about Mikey Way."

Ryan has begun to suspect that he's actually in a coma somewhere and that this is all some surreal dream. He's seen _Buffy_—it's totally possible. "Holy shit," he says.

"Yeah. I don't want to talk about it, though. To anyone. I couldn't deal with the tabloids knowing I had some affair with him or whatever. Partly 'cause it's not their business and partly 'cause I don't have the guts to deal with it. I just wanted you to know you're braver than I am."

*

In LA, Pete takes Ryan to a tattoo parlor, and Ryan gets a My Chem lyrics tattooed on him: _We'll find some other way to carry on, though cartilage and fluid_. He's always liked those lyrics because they make him feel solid, unlike the words in his stories. Pete watches, his hand hovering against Ryan's hip. The tattoo artist ignores it, but Ryan can't. Pete's hand makes him feel solid, too. _Hips and hearts._

Afterwards, Pete drives him to the concert venue, where Ryan slips inside Bleeding White's van.

"I love it," Spencer says, fingers trailing across the still-rough lines of Ryan's tattoo. "That's my favorite song."

"I know," Ryan says, blushing and looking away. He hates how Spencer makes his heart go _fwoosh_.

Spencer goes to kiss him, but Brendon bursts in. "Hey, hey, Brent says he needs you to look at his bass. I think you'd better do it." Ryan hates Brendon with a burning passion.

"What a terrible metaphor," Spencer says, sighing. His hand lingers on Ryan's arm a little before he leaves, and Ryan wonders if it's affection or a warning not to punch Brendon's lights out.

And now Ryan and Brendon are alone in the van. Ryan looks around at the walls, the seats, the instruments. Eventually he's going to have to look at Brendon.

"So . . ." Brendon says, shifting from foot to foot. "Excited for the concert?"

Ryan frowns. "Quit it. Stop trying so hard. I . . . fuck, forget it."

"Sorry . . ."

Brendon looks so hurt that Ryan blurts out, "I want to hate you."

Brendon's face is all innocence and surprise. "What? Why?"

"It should be me," Ryan hears himself say, and this isn't right, he's Ryan, he doesn't tell the truth.

Brendon is silent for a second, staring at his sneakers. Then he says, "I know you think I'm a dumb kid, but I'm not. And I just want you to know that I'd never make a move on him." He beams suddenly. "He's not my type."

Ryan is stunned for a second. Then he says the only thing he can think of. "What _is_ your type?"

Brendon blushes bright red. "Um. Pete Wentz?"

Ryan surprises both of them by hugging Brendon.

When Spencer comes back, Brendon is kind enough to vacate the bus. "Hey," Ryan says, "Let me do your makeup for the show."

Spencer shrugs. "Ok. I never have any idea what I'm doing anyway."

Ryan digs out some makeup from his bag, deeply pained by Spencer's fashion choices. "Ok, here." He looks at the eyeliner, feeling a little dizzy. Brendon and Pete cheered him up, but he still can't feel completely ok, and he has no idea why. He draws lazy blue spirals spinning out from Spencer's eye like vines made of water. He adds purple and silver, like fruits dotted alone the vines. _Something that grows underwater_, he thinks, _because I don't think I can_.

"Wow," Spencer breathes when he looks in the mirror. "God, Ryan."

"How does it look?" Ryan knows how it looks.

"It looks like you're hurting." Spencer indulging Ryan's melodrama is a rarity, and Ryan jerks his head up to stare. Spencer runs his thumb over the empty expanse of skin under Ryan's eye. "I wish I could fix it. Can I?"

Ryan doesn't know if it's a hopeful question or a request, so he just says, "Yes."

Ryan ends up standing in line with the rest of the kids rather than getting any special treatment. He wants to see how the band looks from the point of view of their fans. Every time he thinks the words _the band_ he has to stop himself from saying _my band_.

The place is packed, and Ryan knew they were popular, but he didn't know they were this popular. The kids all around him are screaming and cheering, and he screams too. When Bleeding White finally comes on, they take Ryan's breath away.

Two songs in, Spencer comes out from behind his drum kit and steps to the mic. "This song is for Ryan," he says. His voice is clear and strange, amplified by the microphone.

Brendon and Brent step back a little, and Ryan realizes that Spencer is going to sing. He wants to shut his eyes and listen, but he can't stop staring. The blue spirals under Spencer's eye glint in the stage lights.

Ryan fights the urge to cry for the rest of the show, because seriously, he doesn't deserve someone this amazing, someone who'll do cheesy shit like that during a concert. The crowd pushes and shoves around him, getting as close to the stage as they can. A mosh pit starts up behind him, and he's shoved forward a few more feet. Brendon announces the next song, and everyone screams. Ryan screams too. He never thought this tiny, stupid, brilliant band would become rock stars.

After the show, he makes his way back to the van, clutching his ticket stub. It's a little wrinkled, and he's glad, because that will help him remember this insane night. He needs to remember the tiny details, the things that made him wonder why he would ever question Spencer in the first place. When Spencer comes in, sweaty and gorgeous, makeup running, Ryan stands up a little shakily. "Would you hold my hand, would you sign this photograph, 'cause I'm you're biggest fan—" he starts.

"Hey," Spencer says, "hey."

He doesn't say, "Don't cry," but Ryan can tell that he wants to, so he says, "I won't," maybe to prove that their heads are still connected.

He doesn't kiss Spencer, he just clings to the front of his shirt and listens to him breathe.

A few minutes later, Brendon and Brent come in. Brendon is flushed and alive-looking. He grins. "Hey, there are so many girls out there screaming. They were totally waiting around to see us come out to the van."

"Yeah," says Spencer, "And it was also awesome the other hundred times it happened."

"I don't get it," Brent says, putting his bass away. "You don't even like girls, Brendon."

"I don't know," Ryan says, "I don't think it's about that."

Brendon looks incredibly shocked that Ryan is sticking up for him. "Yeah," he says, "That's right. It's just cool knowing that all these people are really into you."

Spencer nods. "Pete warned us not to let the fame go to our heads."

Right on cue, Pete bounds into the bus, grinning like crazy. "Oh my God," he says. "You guys are my tiny geniuses." He squeezes Ryan's shoulder. "I'm so glad you showed them to me. I'm so glad you showed _yourself_ to me."

The others laugh and roll their eyes, but Ryan thinks about Pete's hand on his hip, and he shivers.

The next morning, Pete has a flight to catch, so Ryan drives back to Vegas alone. He's ok with that, because he has a lot of think about this time, and Pete is too loud and bright and distracting. He listens to _Infinity on High_, though, letting the music make his life mean things it doesn't necessarily mean. _I thought I loved you, it was just how you looked in the light_. Ryan wonders if that's true, for him or for Spencer. He frowns and shuts off the CD, realizing that he's not being fair. He shouldn't question his whole relationship because of a handful of lyrics when he's just had an amazing night that's shown him beyond question that Spencer is something unbreakable inside Ryan, not fragile like the short stories or the spine of a CD case.

Halfway through the drive home, Ryan realizes that it's not Spencer he's been unsure about this whole time. He frowns. There was no hole in his chest, though, when he saw them perform. Instead, he was proud, so it doesn't make sense that he's still messed up about not being in a band.

_Those watermelon smiles just can't ripen underwater,_, he writes in his next short story. His teacher tells him it doesn't make any sense, and he wants to explain that it's a metaphor, but he isn't even sure what it's supposed to be about. His teacher suggests that a lot of his writing is more like songs lyrics than short stories, and he almost drops the class.

"I want to drop out," he tells his major advisor.

"I want to drop out," he tells his favorite professor.

It's almost Christmas by the time they get Ryan to shut up about it. Mostly, he's just freaked out because Spencer is still on tour and he's stuck here freezing and taking finals. The night before Christmas vacation, he can't sleep for the first time in ages. He'll see Spencer tomorrow, and for a whole three whole days after that. He can hardly wait, but he's a little freaked out, too. What if Spencer is all different?

He's never been different yet, though, and Ryan is pretty sure he's not the sort of person to let fame change him, or even to notice that it's trying.

The window in Ryan's room is all ice. Ryan presses his hand against the glass and instantly regrets it. His fingers burn with cold. He doesn't think it's a metaphor, but he's not sure. He shoves his stupid cap up out of his eyes. Fuckfuckfuck. His fingers are ice, and he clenches them. _Spencer_, he thinks. He's never really understood what missing someone is like, and it's not just that Spencer's far away, it's that he's doing all these things that Ryan has no idea about. It's not the same life as the one Ryan's living.

Ryan wants to burn his textbooks to get warm. He presses against the window and shivers.

In the morning, he goes to the health center. He doesn't go in, though. He's not really sick, just scared and freaked out and maybe depressed. He goes back home and puts on one of his My Chemical Romance CDs. _Gerard Way quit art to play music_, Ryan thinks. Now he really does feel sick.

He keeps telling himself that your Junior year of college isn't the end of your life, but he can't help feeling like he made his choice when he left what used to be Panic. He screwed up, and now he doesn't deserve another chance at music.

When Ryan is finally home at Spencer's for Christmas break he can't wait to get back to school. It's kind of a very awful shock when he realizes that he's not happy in either place. Until he realized this, he always had either home or college to look forward to. Now all he has are in-between spaces, bus rides and plane rides to concerts, and the parts where he's asleep. It's maybe not a great way to live. This summer, he vows, he's getting a part-time job. He's getting a life.

Christmas is really nice. Spencer's house smells the same as it always has, and Spencer is still an awesome hugger, and Spencer's mom doesn't even say anything when the two of them share Spencer's bed.

Ryan still feels weird having a warm body pressed up against him, an elbow against his side or back against his back. He's entirely too in love with the feeling, and he knows he'll lose it soon enough. "Spencer," he whispers into the darkness. He instantly feels stupid, because he doesn't really have anything to follow it up with, but he doesn't have to, because Spencer doesn't answer. He must be asleep.

Ryan is so tired his head is spinning, but he can't make himself fall asleep. The room around him feels wide and strange and stretched. "I love you?" he tries.

Spencer rolls over in his sleep. Ryan resolves to make it to another one of Bleeding White's concerts this month if it kills him.

He manages to find an overpriced ticket online and two weeks later, he's taking the bus to the concert. He leans against the window, avoiding the eyes of the other passengers. It's just as cold as the window in his room, and it's no less confusing and painful when he thinks about it. He doesn't want to become one of those tortured artists, taking everything as a sign, but it can't be good that he's freezing cold.

He blinks at his reflection in the iced-over window and traces lines under his mirror-eyes. They are exhaustion lines, or make-up lines, or black eyes. But no, Ryan knows what real black eyes look like. They make him think of home.

"Hey," the guy sitting next to him says, "Are you ok, kid?"

Ryan turns to say yes, but his breath catches in his throat when he realizes it's Gerard Way.

_Oh shit_, Ryan thinks, _He can see my tattoo_. He's going to think Ryan is a creepy stalker. "Um, yeah," he says, because he doesn't want to make a habit out of getting therapy from musical celebrities. And also because he's going to play this cool.

"Ok," Gerard says, "Neat." He goes back to drinking his giant coffee.

Ryan doesn't even understand. Why is someone as awesome and famous as Gerard Way taking the bus? Maybe he just likes to feel normal sometimes. Ryan has heard that celebrities do that, but he can't imagine the feeling. He wonders if he should say anything else, but he doesn't want to dump his issues all over Gerard. Then again, he's sick and tired of feeling like this, and he doesn't know what else to say, because there's nothing else in his head right now. "Um, actually," he says, "I'm not ok." He didn't meant to spout Gerard's lyrics back at him, but there's a reason that song is so popular.

"Yeah?" Gerard says, turning to him and taking off his sunglasses (who the fuck wears sunglasses at night, Ryan wonders). "What's up?" He looks incredibly earnest.

"My life is all fucked up," Ryan says, wanting to kick himself. "I don't know what to do about my boyfriend." He realizes he's still using Spencer to cover up the real problem, but it's easier.

Gerard makes a little "story of my life" noise, and Ryan wonders if he's imaging it. "Yeah," Gerard says, "That happens. What's the problem?"

Ryan sighs, feeling like an idiot. "It's stupid. It's not really him, it's just—He's in this band, Bleeding White, and they're so—I don't even know."

"Wait," Gerard says, "No fucking way. I'm on my way to see them. My friend Pete won't quit calling me and bugging me to check them out. Wait, are you Ryan Ross?"

Ryan blinks. "Um, yeah. You know who I am?" This can't really be happening.

"Yeah, Pete's pretty much obsessed with you. He says you're a writer, and that you're amazing. I write a little bit, too." He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously.

"Uh," Ryan says, "Yeah. I, I know. I've read your comic. I don't want to be a tool, but I'm a really huge fan of your band." His life is so insane right now that he doesn't have a chance to be shy or careful.

Gerard looks genuinely pleased. It's a lot like the look that Pete gets when someone says they like his music, actually, but it's a little less transparent. "No way," he says. "That's really neat."

"Yeah," Ryan says, "I've seen you live like five times." He can't believe this. He has an opportunity to have a really cool conversation with Gerard, and he's fucking it up by acting like a fanboy.

Gerard grins. "That's awesome. I can't wait to see your boyfriend's band." And now Gerard is being incredibly cool about Spencer. He pats Ryan's shoulder. "But not if he's being a dick or something."

"It's not that," Ryan says, feeling like the world's biggest jerk, because he's blushing and whining about Spencer. "It's not actually his fault. I guess I just get jealous, because he's like this big star, and I'm just . . . I'm in college."

"Hey," Gerard says, "There's nothing wrong with college. I mean, it's a fucking mess a lot of the time, but I did it. I was fucking ancient when I started doing music. You've got time."

That's the one thing Ryan was afraid he didn't have, but now . . . "Thank you," he says.

"Yeah, it's cool," Gerard says. "Oh, and I told Pete to stop fucking coming onto you already."

"Thanks," he says, smiling, although he didn't really mind it. Knowing that Pete Wentz had a somewhat creepy crush on him is incredibly flattering.

"Yeah," Gerard says, "But don't think he was being creepy or anything, because I guess he wasn't. He wouldn't have pulled anything serious. But if you didn't have a boyfriend . . ." He shakes his head. "He probably would have made a move."

"I'm kind of glad I do, then," Ryan says, surprising himself. "I don't think I could stand always being second to, you know . . ."

Gerard flicks a piece of fuzz off his knee. "God, I know. He loves Patrick so much. I wish he'd just admit it. I think he'd be a little better off."

Ryan leans back in his seat, still nervous and feeling like an over-invested fan, but also feeling a lot better about everything else. He wants to keep talking to Gerard, but he doesn't know how to start. Then he realizes what he should do. "Hey," he says, "Tell your stupid brother to call Pete."

To Ryan's amazement, Gerard laughs. "Seriously, man, I know."

They spend the rest of the ride talking about music and comics, and Ryan thinks Buffy was probably right to pick the coma dream.

"Hey," Gerard says before they get to the venue, "I'm gonna text Mikey and tell him to call Pete. Because you seem really cool, and I'm pretty sure you don't deserve to have Pete whining at you all the time."

When they get to the venue, Pete is hanging around outside the van, and greets them with a glare and a "He's married now."

"That doesn't mean you can't work shit out," Gerard says, looking irritated and flicking cigarette ash at Pete.

"Besides," Ryan says, "I'm pretty sure your heart is taken, you know?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Pete says loftily. "Now, I have to go, because Patrick is here, and I have to bring him his tea."

The show blows Ryan away, yet again. He wonders how much of it is Spencer and how much is the music, but it doesn't really matter. This is his goddamn band either way.

After Ryan heads back home, Spencer texts him: _My Chem wants to hang out! Your fault!_

Ryan doesn't register the message for a second, just the annoying capital letters. Spencer doesn't know how to text right. Then he reads the message again and flips out.

When Bleeding White's tour ends, Spencer shows up at Ryan's dorm with Brendon and Brent. "Hey," he says. Ryan is glad that the other two being there doesn't stop Spencer from kissing him.

Ryan doesn't think it's at all fair that he's allowed to rub elbows with celebrities, but he's trying desperately to swallow that insecurity. Maybe he deserves awesome stuff once in a while.

They all go to the mall because Frank insists on it, and Gerard is really excited to get mall coffee, anyway. It turns out that Frank is really cool, unsurprisingly. When he first meets Ryan, he claps him on the shoulder and says, "You're beautiful! I wish I was that beautiful. Your boyfriend is hot, Spencer. But not as hot as my hot fiancée."

Bob glares at him. "Dude."

"Yeah," Ray says, "We know she's hot. You've _said_. We remember."

Frank grins. "Never will I stop."

Pete and Mikey are actually being way less awkward at each other than Ryan expected them to be, and Gerard shoots him a thumbs-up when neither of them are looking. Wow. Ryan should become a therapist for bassists who can't get their lives together.

Brian is there, too, and he seems excited to talk to Ryan about music. "I hear you're really into the idea of managing," he says.

Ryan doesn't even know who to yell at.

When they've all acquired Chinese food, and Gerard has acquired two cups of coffee, Ryan feels much more relaxed. It feels like they're just a bunch of normal guys hanging out, not ten celebrities, a Brian, and a stupid college kid who can't deal with life.

Patrick keeps looking around nervously. "I can't believe we're not getting swamped by teenagers," he says. "They seem to follow Gerard and Pete around."

"And you," Pete says happily. His arm is draped around Patrick pretty much constantly, and he pulls him closer.

Patrick bats his hand away. "Quit it. I'm trying to eat. And they don't follow me."

"Well, they should," Pete persists, tugging Patrick closer still and trying to feed him a chicken finger.

Brendon's face looks like an a cartoon sadface. "Hey," Brent says, nudging him in the ribs, "It's ok. He was way older than you anyway."

Brendon pouts. "You are most lame, Brent. I may have to ask you out."

Ryan smiles at Brent's look of shock.

"We are the gayest table in ever," Frank says, beaming. "Except I have a hot—"

Brian punches him hard in the arm. "You may have mentioned. We know her, you know."

Ryan leans against Spencer's arm a little, trying not to get Chinese food on either of their sweatshirts. "Love you," he mumbles into Spencer's shoulder.

"You too. And I love all this." He gestures around the table.

"Yeah. It's cool, hanging out with famous people."

"No, stupid," Spencer says. "This. Eating Chinese food with you. Hanging out with our friends. Who, yeah, happen to be famous."

Ryan digs his fingers into Spencer's arm until they go numb. "I mentioned that I love you," he says, looking around the table. Brendon is putting lo mein in Brent's ear, and Ryan smiles.

A little later, when Gerard is hiding behind his giant sunglasses and they're browsing target, Pete pulls Ryan aside. "Hey, I meant to say thanks. For, y'know."

Ryan smiles. "No problem. It sounds like Mikey was pretty cool about it."

"Oh," Pete says, waving his hand, "Not that. The other thing. The . . . thing about my heart being taken. Because it is. And I decided to stop being a douche about it." He looks adoringly at Patrick, who is browsing the game consoles.

For the first time, Ryan feels like he's actually part of this weird world he's stumbled into.

*

On the ride home, Ryan says, "Hey, guys? I think I finally figured out what I want to do with my life."

Spencer raises his eyebrow, but no one says anything. They just wait.

"I'm going to become a band manager."

Brendon is the only one who's surprised.

*

It's not actually too hard to break into the business once Brian Schechter takes a liking to you, apparently. He's really excited when Ryan mentions that in fact, yes, he does want to manage. "You have no idea," he says. "The business needs more competent managers. Some of these bands are hopeless." He throws up his hands. "Gerard would never shower if it weren't for me."

Ryan smiles. "I don't think I'll have that problem. My band is pretty clean." _My band_. He finally has a claim to the words that have sounded right all along.

Ryan gets a really awesome stripy jacket from Brian, and a really awesome hug from Pete. "All of my favorite tiny people in one place," Pete says, when Ryan finally takes over as Bleeding White's manager.

"You have no idea how creepy you are," Spencer tells Pete, patting him on the head.

"_You_ have no idea how creepy I am," Pete says, laughing. "You're lucky Gerard made me stop coming onto Ryan. I'll bet you didn't know I was doing that."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "I'll bet I did. Subtlety isn't really what you're best at."

Patrick looks up from his laptop. "Pete. For God's sake. They were like _ten_. What's wrong with you?"

"You were like ten, too, when found you," Pete points out cheerfully, hugging Patrick.

"Don't remind me."

One of the coolest things Ryan gets to do is hang out with Pete and Gerard and talk about writing. Gerard is always bursting in when they didn't know he was even in the state, drinking coffee and wearing giants sunglasses, and tossing drafts of _Umbrella Academy_ at Ryan. "Hey," he says one day, when he, Ryan, and Pete are in a Starbucks waiting for Bleeding White to finish practicing, "Do you want to collaborate sometime, Ryan? You could write something and I could illustrate it. It'd be fucking amazing."

Ryan's glad that he's gotten to the point where hanging out with Pete and Gerard is par for the course, or he'd probably have a heart attack. "Yeah," he says, "Of course I would."

Pete beams and claps them both on the shoulder. "And I'll buy every copy. And one for Patrick."

"How's that going, anyway?" Gerard says.

Pete fiddles with his latte. "I don't know. It's . . . I keep waiting for him to realize what a dick I am."

"I don't know," Ryan says, "I'm pretty sure he would have realized already."

Ryan's stories are changing, too. He didn't believe in clean, safe fairytale endings, and most people still don't get them. Brendon and Brent have a stupidly wonderful relationship, but they manage to fight pretty much every day. Ryan has proven plenty of times that he and Spencer sometimes have issues. Pete and Patrick's relationship, though, is probably what changes his writing. Pete really does bring Patrick tea, and they both write songs for each other, and when Patrick wakes up covered in Sharpie, he doesn't just get pissed off, he laughs about it, too. Ryan still isn't sure about happily ever after, but a song with a happy ending is close enough.

Sometimes Ryan still gets weird little reminders of what his life used to be like. One day when he's at the mall, a girl comes up to him and asks, "Hey, aren't you that guy who used to post all those pictures of himself on Livejournal?" Ryan tells her he's not, and when he goes home, he opens the file and looks at the old pictures. He looks sick in most of them, too thin, too pale, too miserable. He doesn't delete them, though, because it's nice to realize that he's not sick anymore.

Ryan's favorite part of the job is the dramatic sighs he gets to pull off when the band doesn't do what he says. That's another thing he learned from Brian. Telling Brent and Brendon what to do is another major plus, besides the fact that he can finally dress Spencer properly. Brendon had the right idea, but Ryan has had years of hanging around on a badly dressed campus to perfect his style. "I'm amazed you accepted the Schechter-coat," Spencer says, as Ryan drapes various scarves around his neck.

Ryan also starts scribbling lyrics on the backs of napkins in their bus and leaving them around for the others to find. Their group writing effort is divided and difficult, and no one minds that Ryan is helping out a little.

He looks back at his college writing a lot, and he's surprised to see that he's upset by it. It was bad, but it was also transparent. He can tell by reading it that the writer was dangerously thin and had dark circles under his eyes. These days he's working with just the dark circles, but he's earning them doing something he loves instead of something that's haunting him.

Brendon is so pleased with Ryan's writing that he won't shut up about it. Ryan just rolls his eyes and lets Brendon be his mouthpiece, singing Ryan's words in his amazing, amazing voice. When Ryan sees them perform, he's shocked to hear how powerful his words are in Brendon's mouth. Maybe that's what he was trying to do years ago when he discovered Brendon.

"Oh yeah," Spencer says one day, "I meant to thank you."

Ryan likes getting thanked. He puts down his clipboard of Stuff To Do In Life and smiles. "What for?"

"For the new lyrics. That's something everyone says we need to work on, and I think now it's finally all fitting together. Even though it took us two albums to get it right."

Ryan glares at the table and mumbles, "Those albums were plenty good, jerk. I've barely listened to anything else since _Build God_ came out."

Spencer smiles. "I always forget that we let you name that one. I guess that's when we started letting you manage us." He bites his lip. "Maybe I'm making stuff up, though. I know it probably didn't mean much."

"It meant everything to me," Ryan says.


End file.
